The Ex Talk(47)

“Forget that happened?” I let out a sound that might be a laugh, but it’s much higher pitched than I’m used to hearing. I bring my fingertips to my mouth, as though grasping for the memory of his lips there.

His shoulders sag. Relief—that’s what it is. “Please. I really am so sorry.”

“Me too,” I say, because didn’t he realize I was kissing him back? Maybe he couldn’t tell. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe I should quit The Ex Talk. It sounds about as rational as any of the other thoughts racing through my mind. “Then I should . . .” I nod toward the street, making this supremely dorky gesture with my thumbs.

“Right. Yeah. Thank you. Again. Let me know how much I owe you for the drinks, and the Lyft, and—”

“It’s no problem.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” He scratches at his elbow, unable to meet my eyes. A minute ago, that hand was in my hair. “Do you want me to, uh, wait out here until your ride comes?”

“Nope!” I chirp back. I am a Disney character. An animated mouse. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Well—okay,” he says, fumbling with his keys before fitting them in the lock. “See you tomorrow?”

If I haven’t flung myself into Puget Sound by then. “See you,” I echo, and when his door shuts, I sink to the ground and vow to never drink again.





16




It’s a relief to see Ameena on Wednesday, even if it means subjecting my poor ego to another wine-and-paint night. Tonight’s Blush ’n Brush subject is a bowl of artfully arranged trinkets: a locket, a mirror, a doll with a sad haircut and a single eyeball. She has definitely seen some shit.

“Where did they get that fucking doll?” I hiss to Ameena.

Ameena frowns at her canvas, where she’s captured the essence of the doll in a way few people could. “I don’t know, but I swear her one eye is following me.” She peers over at my rendering of it. “What the hell, Shay, you made it worse!”

“I’m sorry!” I lob more paint onto the canvas. “My mind is in about a hundred places.”

“I get it. I’ve barely been able to focus on work this week with all the interview prep the conservancy sent over.”

A thing that is happening: Ameena flying to Virginia for a final interview.

She told me ten minutes ago. I’m still processing.

The wine helps, but it’s also led me down a few questionable paths lately, so I’m not about to trust it completely. I’ve amended my vow: I am not drinking only if Dominic is nearby, since I can’t be trusted to make good choices.

So far this week, we’ve stuck to our plan to pretend Monday night never happened. We’ve been polite, probably too polite as we dance around each other in a finely tuned choreography of avoidance. Our conversations are about work and work only. No late nights at the office, no more tidbits about our personal lives. His face is as stoic as it’s ever been. For the first time, I’m dreading tomorrow’s show, and painting with Ameena isn’t as much of a distraction as I’d hoped it would be.

Part of me is relieved we’ve been able to put it behind us, but another part—a part that’s growing larger each day—can’t stop thinking about the kiss. Can’t get his stupid nice face out of my head. That brush of lips was so brief that sometimes I’m convinced I imagined it. I haven’t even told Ameena.

And it’s not just the kiss. It’s what we talked about, our shared loneliness, and how I felt we might be turning a corner in our relationship. Because if the kiss didn’t happen, then none of that did, either. We’re not friends? Dominic had asked. No. I suppose we’re not.

“Do you want help with the interview?” I ask Ameena, banishing Dominic to the darkest corner of my brain and tying him to a chair. No. Wait. That’s worse.

She shakes her head. “TJ’s been really great about it.” Then, without looking up from her painting, she says, “He said last night that he’d move with me if I get the job.”

“Oh . . . oh wow.” I let this sink in. At least if TJ were here, Ameena would have more of a reason to visit. I don’t want to admit my biggest fear: that I am not enough of a reason on my own. “That’s good, yeah?”

“Yes and no,” she says. “It would make my decision easier if they offer me the job, but it’s still going to be a tough one.”

“I’d come see you. We could do Virginian things, like . . .”

“You don’t know anything about Virginia, do you?”

“It’s for lovers?”

“Supposedly.” She sips her wine. “And are you still pretending your cohost isn’t cute?”

My face heats up. You’re cute. That was what he said Monday night. Then he said he liked my hair down—liked it a lot. In related news, I’ve worn ponytails the past two days.

“I can admit he’s cute. But even if I liked him, and even if he liked me, which he doesn’t, this wouldn’t be able to be a thing.” If he had any nonprofessional feelings for me, he wouldn’t have been so eager to forget the kiss. Simple as that.

“Why not?”

I glance around, then lower my voice. “The whole point of the show is that we used to date, and that our breakup was amicable enough for us to host it together.